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Wednesday, 30 October 2013

Blegh!Generalising – such a nasty habit.And one I take caution in not indulging
in.

I dislike the way some people or
things are grouped together, randomly, because they have one or two common
factors.As if that makes one an expert
on everyone or everything that has those same two common factors.Such a ridiculous sentiment, isn’t it?

And I suppose that generalising,
comes under the same heading as sweeping statements.Equally awful.

Furthermore, generalising, is
such a safe habit.It allows the
opportunity to make a statement, and in the event that you are wrong, it’s
actually all above board and quite legit, because you did say generally
speaking.It leaves a margin for
error.As you don’t state unequivocally
that something is a certain way.You
allow for exceptions and deviations off your rule.You’re basically playing it safe.

Yet how can one not generalise?We pick up little bits in our life
experiences, and we draw conclusions from that.We deduct and we deduce.We come
to understandings.And we see something
as being a certain way.

And despite my high and
idealistic ideals, I do the same.But
perhaps this is human nature.We seek to
find order.To make sense of our world.To have a better grasp on how things
work.Why they work.Why they are.

Boys are a certain way.Men too.You know all about middle children.As if all men, who happened to be boys (one should hope so) and were
middle children are exactly the same.The way people say that women are bad drivers.Or people with hats drive slowly.Certain ethnic groups have spatial awareness
problems.Gay men are all raving
queens.Girls like pink.And so the list goes on and on.Such complete and utter rubbish.

But I know, that I myself, fall
into some of these random conclusion traps.

And so perhaps, one should rather
embrace this odd habit of ours?Maybe it
shows that you have thought processes to start off with.That you have a brain swirling around in your
noggin.Always a winning starting
point.

This habit allows us to safely
traverse through life.To get by.To not act like an idiot for all of the time.

Thus, generally speaking?Well I hate to generalise, but in general I
find it rather useful.

Tuesday, 29 October 2013

Oh, we’re not having marital
problems at all.And it’s not as if we’re
getting the big D.In fact far from
it.

I actually want to get him
another wife, while he’s still married to me.No, he’s not a Mormon.Nor do I actively
encourage the practice of polygamy.But I’m
flexible, and willing to adapt.

Wives do a heck of a lot.They’re generally, busy, capable people, able
to juggle multiple balls.They do.They organise.They arrange.

Now just imagine, if there were
two of us?Just imagine how much we
would be able to accomplish in any given day?Though to be honest, I’ll give the second Mrs Cloete, all of the crappy
jobs.The ones that are not much fun.

And so, in essence, I’m thinking about
outsourcing some of my wifely duties.On
spreading the load.On making my life
less rushed and hurried.Of being able
to delegate a bit more.

Afrikaans people are quite often
known to call their domestic help, “Ousie”.But given our surname and the fact that the 2nd Mrs Cloete,
would be an extension of me, or a reprint second edition, so to speak, I’ll
call her “2C”, instead.Pronounced, as “two-see”.Sounds marvellous and has a wonderful ring to
it already.Though speaking of rings, best
she gets no crazy ideas about getting a big fabulous ring from my man as a part
of the deal.Ain’t gonna happen!And while we’re at it, conjugal duties will
not be a part of her perks.Those are
reserved for me alone.I’m not really
into sharing all that much.And as such,
smooching and hand holding is not allowed either.

And so perhaps, just to hedge all
of my bets, I’ll have to do a thorough check on 2C before employment.There will clearly be a few boxes that need
to be ticked.She’d need to be ugly – no
bones about it.Being physically
repulsive will go a long “weigh” too.Maybe
throw in a bit of body odour while I’m at it, to just ensure that there is no
attraction.And finally, she’d need to
be super old.Just so that I’m hedging
all of my bets.

I’d make2C do stuff like the
endless carting of kids all around.The school
meetings, the covering of books, the runs to school lost property.I’d make her sit in the sun at school gala’s
and be a time keeper at athletics.She’d
volunteer to be on the Governing Body and help to organise treats for teacher’s
birthdays.She’d make snacks for school
events and help with costumes for dancing shows.She’d definitely to tuck shop duties.She’d do hair and make-up for umpteen kids at
school concerts and help to frame kids art work for exhibitions.She’d do trips to the municipality, Telkom
and the bank.She’d do the daily
shopping and I’d send her on a culinary course for sure.She’ll delight in daily homework and school
projects will be her passion.She’d be
an administrative whizz and run the whole home like a pro.

Though, I suppose I better
exercise a wee bit of caution, lest she becomes more valuable to the family
than me.I would hate to be replaced in
the end.They might just prefer her
services to mine?

And perhaps given all of the
above, I’m making a critical error.Rather
than getting my husband a second wife, maybe I should rather be investing in
getting myself one of my very own?I’d
make her go to the gym, yet make her efforts show up on my body.She’d pack school lunches for sure.She’d cook without a doubt.Homework would be her joy.Practicing orals with kids her favourite.She’s do all the tedious, mundane and boring
bits of life.

Taking loads off my
shoulders.And easing my life instead.

Freeing up valuable free time,
for me to spend with my man.Romantic dinners
and walks on the beach.

Friday, 25 October 2013

Hi, my name is Helene and I’m addicted to energy
drinks.My gateway drug was Coke.

Intellectually, I know they don’t really work.That they’re probably as accurate, scientific
and helpful towards fixing depleting energy levels, as horoscopes in the daily
paper are towards revealing visions about your future.That they’re as ineffective as using a teaspoon
to empty a bath.Particularly, when you
could just pull the plug instead.

Cause the real solution, to boost your energy?The magic fix-all?

Get more sleep.It’s
actually a no-brainer.

But here’s the problem.Sleep is just so boring.It’s so
mind numbing and tedious.And there’s so
much else I would rather be doing.

Now I’m not saying sleep isn’t nice.Because I do like it.I just find it a waste of time.According to my mom, this has been my motto
since birth.Personally, I think it’s
because I’m so scared I’ll miss out on anything fun.And any product that give me a means to cheat
Wee Willie Winkie, is a-okay in my books.

Still every so often, I indulge in an energy drink.Because ineffective or not, they con my brain
into thinking, I’ll have a bit more oomph.Sort of the placebo effect, if you catch my drift.Because though a part of my brain is
thinking, “who are you kidding?”, another part of my brain is thinking,
“yippiee, today I will have an energetic and super productive day!”.I am also usually overcome with visions of
the energizer bunny that just keeps on going.

But I’ve given it some thought, surely the magic ingredient
that would ensure energy, apart from boring sleep, is sugar?If memory serves me from way back in time,
when I was still at school, sugar equalled energy.

I present to you, the original Wee Willie Winkie:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,

Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown,

Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,

"Are the children all in bed, for now it's eight o'clock?"

And then I give to you my souped up version (with wonderous second verse):

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,

Upstairs and downstairs with his party crown

Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,

“Yo-yo party peeps, it’s time to rock”

Have you had your sugar yet?

It will start your energy jet.

Put some zing in your step

Cause sleeping’s such an awful schlepp

I would also just like to mention, that something has
clearly gone missing in translation. And I'm uber grateful for that. In
the original Wee Willie Winkie poem, of Scottish origin, the line was, “Are the
children all in bed, for now it’s 10 o’clock”.Thank heavens some clever person rewrote it, made a typo and changed the
time to 8pm.Can you imagine still
having your children under your feet at 10pm at night?If that was the case, I’d have to resort to
bucket loads of sugar, to get me through each day.

But maybe not even that would help.

So perhaps I’ve missed a critical and far cheaper coup?A triumph of sorts.Rather than spend money on so-called energy
drinks, I could just go right to the source – my sugar bowl at home.

Consider it done.And
so, sorry to Red Bull, Monster, Boost, Robust and Play – perhaps, rather than
spend money on you, I’ll just sugar-up instead.I’m sure my dentist would love to go on holiday again.Maybe this way, I can even fund it for her…..

Thursday, 24 October 2013

I’m currently hiding out.Trying to protect my anonymity.Hiding in plain sight.Hoping to blend in.To draw no unnecessary attention to myself.

First rule – make no eye
contact.I’m in the Fitness Protection
Programme.

I absolutely abhor exercise. In any shape, form or manner.And it’s not really difficult to deduce why –
I’m lazy.There!I’ve said it.Now shoot me.Go ahead!I don’t make a difficult target – it’s not
as if I’m fit enough to run.

I don’t like to exert myself
physically.I don’t understand the
exercise euphoria I’ve heard people talking about.How addictive it can become.How you simply need your daily fix.It simply makes no logical sense.But then again, I’m inherently lazy.I really, really am.I’d far rather read a book, or watch a
movie.Alternatively, watching paint dry
is more exhilarating and even a root canal holds more appeal.

If I run, it can only mean that
someone is chasing me.In fact, I am so
bad at running, as to appear comical.Apparently.How rude!When my kids are feeling bored and need a
good laugh, they ask me to run in the front garden.And I’m nothing, if not a sport.And so, every so often, if I’m feeling
indulgent, I’ll do just that – indulge them.And boy do they love it.They
make themselves comfortable on the stoep.Sitting is advised, as they may fall over in laughter if standing
up.They actually stop just short of
getting snacks.But perhaps that is more
due to the fact that “the show” I give them is so exceptionally short.I wish I could say that I streak past them
with long legged grace.But, I really,
really, really don’t.Apparently it’s
part gallop, part who knows what.My
arms flail.My legs appear not
operational.And in addition to that I
think the wheezing is pretty amusing too.What can I say?I’ve raised truly
awful kids, who enjoy laughing at their mother.Worst of all, I’ve probably actively indulged them in this hobby of
theirs.

Getting out of breath because
you’re exercising, leaves me emotionally cold, even though I’d feel physically
hot.Why do it?

The gym holds no appeal
whatsoever.As in nada.Zip.Zilch.Zero.And any other word that means nothing,
starting with a “z”.And more than
likely this is due to the fact that in order to gym, you have to appear in skin
tight, figure hugging clothes.I’d feel
self-conscious, and I’m pretty sure I’d suck at whatever the gym threw at
me.Exercising with groups of people in
a class, like Zumba, or something, would not help either.I’d appear uncoordinated and would have to
slunk and hide in the back of the class.A pretty difficult thing to accomplish, given the propensity of gyms to
have mirrors all around.I’d be that one
person in the back that steps left, when everyone else is stepping right.Yip, that would be me.

What makes this all particularly
funny, is the fact that my kids seem to like exercise, sport, dancing,
etc.Of their own accord?There is my eldest son, the
hockey-mad-A-team-playing whiz, who has a passion for soccer and enjoys running
around outside playing either soccer, hockey or cricket.Unprovoked!There is my very coordinated daughter, who thrives whilst doing
dancing.And my youngest kid is just
sports mad.I can’t actually think that
I’ve ever seen him just walking.The pace
is way too slow for him.He tends to
run, gallop, skip, sprint, etc.Most
often, whilst making bowling movements with at least one arm.Truly odd!And if it wasn’t for the fact that I was physically there, conscious
when each one of them was born, I would doubt the fact that they were even
mine.

Every so often, I dabble with the
idea of exercising.And of getting
fit.I have visions of slimness.Lean, supple muscles.Experiencing the exercise adrenaline high for
myself.

And then I just sit down, until
the feeling passes again.

And to be honest, I've given the exercise thing the odd bash over the years. Though to be fair, I've never really truly committed. I've done lengthy walks with friends - but the main exercise is actually given to my jaw, as we jabber the whole way long. I've done power plate, where I jiggled my bits. And many, many, many moons ago, in my late teens and early twenties, I actually gave a small gym a try. It was NOT true love. I still can't quite visualise the bit where I go from burning chest, aching muscles, wheezing lungs, lame feeling in legs, floaty pass-out sensation and spots in front of my eyes, to a place of pleasure. And so perhaps I've always given up too easily.

Still, in lieu of traditional
exercise, I lift Jumping Castles for a living.And hence I’m actually ridiculously strong.Humongous muscle power in my arms and maybe
by coincidence in my legs too.

The marvellous by-product of
which, is that my physical prowess, helps to keep my husband in line…..I’d take that skinny boy down!

Wednesday, 23 October 2013

It’s not so much a case of me
being really fat.I’m just exceptionally
short for my weight.

And to be honest, it’s actually
taken me a rather long while to finally figure this out.But now that I have, it naturally makes
perfect, logical, if slightly warped, sense of course.And I can’t believe it didn’t join the dots
earlier.I’m normally not that slow off
the mark.But perhaps, my diminutive
height, is to blame for me taking so long for the penny to drop.Maybe the combo of my shortness, lack of
vertical scope, and my expanding need to shoot up, has caused a brain
malfunction of sorts.Pressure on plates,
medulla oblongata, spleen(???), blah, blah, blah.

Currently, by obese standards,
I’m not that.Luckily.Still for me and for what I’m comfortable
with, I’m leaning towards the podgy side.It’s that bloody fat alter-ego of mine, Mildred.She’s a truly nasty piece of work.I can’t stand the evil cow!

And with summer around the
corner, I am ever aware that it is time for Mildred to shove off.She is no longer welcome at all.

And as such, I have given a
thought as to how to boot her.Dieting
is so hunger inducing.Exercising is so
tiring.

Instead, I’ve come up with a
master plan of sorts.

I am expending all of my energies
on thinking lengthy, elongated thoughts.If I just stretched a wee little bit, it would sort out a whole bunch of
troubles for me.Just think of it.My weight would not have to drop.There would be nothing for me to lose.None of that nasty dieting and exercising
required at all.Instead, the existing
weight I’ve got, would just settle into a bigger allocated space.Personally I’m visualising it in the longer
leg area.Potentially plumping up my
calves nicely.However, I’m quite
willing to adapt.It stands to reason,
that my arms would stretch too.And
fuller lower arms, even muscles, would be perfectly all right by me.In addition, I would not moan at all, if the
breast area filled out a bit more.In
fact, I think I’d like it a lot!

One friend of mine, is super
anxious to lose weight.She’s going on
an exotic beach holiday next year.A holiday
that would involve lounging around on the beach in a cozzie.Covering up with a scarf, beanie, jeans and
sweater simply won’t do.And she says,
that despite her on-again-off-again yo-yo dieting over the years, this time she
is determined.She will succeed.Why this week alone she has lost 3kg, all
thanks to putting her scale on a different tile on the bathroom floor…

But perhaps, I should take the
advice of another friend.On a recent
shopping excursion, she went to a (let’s call it) “larger-lady-shop”.This title given by her own admission.And upon emerging a while later and having
the size 16 jeans not fit her either, she hoofed it off to the food court,
where she promptly ate four samosas in a row.Knowing her, it didn’t stop there either.She has a weakness for Nik Naks chips and
chocolate Chuckles too, and I’m surmising that she would’ve worked her way
through a bag of both of them.All
whilst doing the school run with her kids and being out and about doing her
errands.

She reckons that her goal of many
years, to be thin, has been flawed.In
fact, it’s ridiculous, she says!Instead
she has lowered the bar a bit.Decided
to be more realistic in setting her targets.And so now, her newly revised weight goal is to just not be obese.

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

Stalking used to be so much more difficult in the old days - before Facebook
22 October 2013

I would like to take this
opportunity, to personally thank Mark Zuckerberg (and his four former mates)
for Facebook.Because before the advent
thereof, stalking was so much more difficult.

It involved lengthy stake-outs in
cars.Nah, we only had bicycles.Sometimes we had to do it on foot!Occasionally, it called for the climbing of
trees for a better vantage point.Lots of
peering and creeping.And tiptoeing
too.Clothes got dirty, from crawling
around.And camouflage make-up was
particularly harsh on the skin.If stalking
with a friend for company, whispering was tricky, and learning complicated hand
signals, even more so.

But nowadays?Well, nowadays it’s a breeze.With the mere click of a button, you can go
right into someone’s home.Also depending
on what pics they’ve added, you can see their garden, their holiday.Heck even their pets.Maybe even their bedroom too.You can see their families, their kids and
their friends.You can see them at play –
out and about.You can see them, most
anywhere you like.

In addition, you can see who they
mingle with.Who their friends are.Where they work.Where they live.Even get their contact details.

And somehow, one tends to forget
all of this, when you personally, are posting and adding things on to your wall
and your profile.

Most times when I hook up with
someone on Facebook, I have a peek at their world.It stands to reason.And how would I do this?Well, it’s easy you see – their photos.It usually, most elegantly and beautifully,
gives you the highs of their lives.All compacted
into albums conveniently.It shows you the
important bits.The bits worth
immortalising on camera.

And I’m surmising that most
people do this.If you get a friend
request, you quickly have a look, if you’ve got the time.And you’re interested enough to do so.Which goes without saying.

My own Facebook page, has grown
to close to a thousand friends.And perhaps
inadvertently, I’ve made myself more out there with the blog.Which is a strange concept to me in
itself.For me, it’s still little old
me, sitting in front of my computer typing.Wrapping my head around the fact that people other than my mother,
sister, aunt and gran read regularly, is a bit surreal.Maybe I’m a bit more in the public domain
because of the blog?But I don’t really
know.It all sounds rather odd to
me.Many friends have found me through
the blog.Then there’s friends, family,
friends of friends, friends of family, friends of friends of friends, etc.And so the circle gets ever bigger.

For any teenager, worthy of their
weight in hormones and attitude, Facebook is about three things and three
things only:Firstly, acquiring as many
friends as possible.Secondly assuring
that only flattering pics of yourself are posted – hence the huge amount of
selfies taken by teens.And thirdly,
creating the illusion of popularity.Goal
number one is achieved by stalking and poaching friends.Goal number two is achieved by taking
selfies.And goal number three is
achieved by taking selfies, tagging yourself, doing numerous status updates,
and increasing your number of friends, via means of stalking and poaching.

Thursday, 17 October 2013

I would like to share a handy
snippet of advice to anyone out there, thinking of starting a family.This goes out to those who have not yet taken
the plunge.Who are toying with the
idea.People who are still in the
romantic planning phase of becoming with child.

Now I’m not claiming to be a
parenting guru.Or that I know all the
answers.But in my fifteen years of
traversing the parenting highway, I have picked up a few tips along the way.

And the most important one of all
is this:

Have your eldest child first.

No, wait.Don’t laugh.This actually makes a lot of sense.

Eldest children are your first
experiments.

They’re hardy little things.They have to be.Let’s face it, you don’t really know what you’re
doing.Everything is all brand new.In addition, as new parents, you are full of
idealistic plans to raise a perfect specimen.A child so talented, clever, well behaved, gifted, intelligent, street
smart and all round wonderful, that they are clearly destined for great
things.He or she will be a captain of
industry.A doctor.No lawyer.A president.A CEO. An entrepreneurial genius.A rocket scientist.In fact, why aim so low?The master of the universe.And rightly so.

Without even being aware of doing
so, we place a lot of pressure on them.But not only on them.On
ourselves too.Because it stands to
reason that only perfect parents can raise perfect children.

And let’s face it – with your
first child you don’t know it all.To be
honest, irrespective of the amount of kids you have, you never know it
all.In fact in many ways, you know
bugger all.You stumble along the
way.You give it your best shot.You try different things.Some work.And some sadly don’t.

You read something cool and
inspirational about rearing kids and you try to give it a bash.To make it your own.To incorporate it into your growing parental
style.

And thus, we do a fair bit of
experimenting on our eldest children.They’re our guinea-pigs if you like.And actually we really should know better.Nowadays even major cosmetics companies know
that animal testing is banned and is cruel.Now I’m not saying kids are animals, per se.However on some occasions, their behaviour
can mimic those of animals.It’s true.

Eldest kids are kind of like our
“Exhibit A”.And as such, we put a lot
of effort into “Exhibit A”.Naturally.Especially as “Exhibit A” is the prototype
for “Exhibit B”.To however far down in
the alphabet you want to go.And thus,
depending on the success of “Exhibit A”, you might tweak your formula a bit to
try and better both your performance and the outcome of “Exhibit B”.Sort of play around a bit to try and get the
whole mix just right.Perhaps add a wee
bit of this.And take away a dollop of that.

Also, if you do your job just
right with “Exhibit A”, he or she will help you to raise any further exhibits you
may have.And so for instance, if you
teach “Exhibit A” how to use the toilet properly, by example, “Exhibit A” will
show later exhibitions how to do the same thing too.It kind of lessens your load.Parentally speaking.

Currently I’m busy with “Exhibit
C”.Though, actually, truth be told, he’s
still a work in progress.The same with “Exhibit
A” and “Exhibit B”.I’m testing on them
concurrently.All at the same time.And in some ways it’s getting easier.I’m thinking I might just start to get a
better handle on this parenting thing by the time I get to “Exhibit T”.Though sadly, my husband does not feel
inclined to put my theory to the test.

But perhaps my feelings of
accomplishments with “Exhibit C” are also due to my relaxing of standards ever
so slightly.No longer do I aim for, “My
son the doctor”.Or, “My son, professor
Cloete”.Can’t exactly remember that I ever
did.Quite frankly, I’m just hoping he
gets through school.

I want him to be well rounded in
all that he does.To be a nice kid.One who has manners.Is polite.But has gumption too.A spirited
child who’ll get far in life.Who’ll
find happiness in love and enjoy his life.In fact my aims are the same for “Exhibit A” and “Exhibit B” too.My biggest wish for them now, is that they
will be happy, safe and fulfilled in their lives.

Eldest children do us a favour,
by being born first.They give us an
opportunity to stretch our wings.To
expand our horizons.To find our
feet.To think on our feet too.

Mostly, because thanks to a quirk
of fate, they love us unconditionally, despite all that we do wrong.The many mistakes we make along the way.

As they grow, so we grow.

And sometimes, looking back, you
see glimmers of gold in your exhibits.One and all.And you know, that
you’re actually on the right track.You’re doing okay.

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

Lately, mine has been sending me
around the bend!Switching on and off
whenever it feels the need.Lagging,
stalling and just plain being downright stubborn!

However, my beloved stepdad,
Daya, has a theory.And to give him his
due, he is mostly right.He is rather
technologically advanced and writes computer programmes in funny languages I
can’t even begin to comprehend.It’s
like there’s a whole subculture of techies out there, that talk software.A unique language of their own and one that
keeps on morphing and evolving it seems.

Daya is also generally pretty
good with sorting out most computer glitches.He’s my mom’s go-to-guy when her PC plays up.And on occasion I’ve even been known to phone
him to ask him something or other.

A wonderful bonus is his
marvellous sense of humour.And so a
computer related phone call could sound something like this:

Daya:“Hello!”

Helene:“Hi there!Is this online technical support?”

Daya:“Yes it is.You are number 37 in the queue.Please note that your call may be recorded for quality control purposes.Please stay on the line for our next
available technician.Your call is
important to us.”

And so on and so forth.This usually leads to a predictable bout of
laughter from both of us.Laughing at
the same old jokes is the best, as there is so much comfort to be gained from
it.Getting an expected response is
fabulous.Especially if you genuinely
find the chirp amusing.And delight in
hearing it again.Our Daya is such a fun
person.

However, back to Daya’s theory:

MOST COMPUTER PROBLEMS ARE A
PICNIC

The first time I heard him say
this, I took immense comfort from his confidence.Surely if most computer problems were a
picnic, it meant that they were easy to solve.Hopefully by him.

But my blessed relief in his
absolute ability was short lived.My
Daya is the pun king and loves playing with words.He’s a real whizz at wordplay.

I can’t remember exactly how long
it took for me to first question this picnic theory of his and to start having
my doubts.Perhaps it was the expression
on his face when I saw him.Or the tone
of his voice.

And so after questioning him, he
confessed:

PICNIC – Problem In Chair, Not In
Computer

Admittedly he’s theory is usually
spot on!Now apparently, this is not a
new phrase and has been coined already.Still I love it.It gives me both
a giggle and a pause for thought when it comes to sorting out PC problems.Just plain switching it on and off again,
thereby rebooting, cures most ails.

But will I ever forget a few
years ago, when Luke was about five or six years old.Daya had passed on a computer game from my
stepsister, Katarina, called Freddie Fish.Luke was super enthusiastic about this sweet little game.And at that age, I still had to help him
quite a bit on the computer.However,
the two of us kept on getting stuck on the same spot in the game, leaving us
unable to advance to the more exciting levels.

And so, I had to phone Daya.

Daya:“Hello!”

Helene:“Hi there!Is this online technical support?”

Daya:“Yes it is.You are number 37 in the queue.Please note that your call may be recorded for quality control purposes.Please stay on the line for our next
available technician.Your call is
important to us.”

Helene:“Daya, Luke and I are playing Freddi Fish and
we keep on getting stuck on the same spot where you have to try and get the
cork out of the bottle.Please can you
help us?”

And then my forty seven year old
stepdad said:

“Shim-Sham-Jimmety-Jam-Clapper-Gapper.”

And I do believe I told him,

“You’re just making that up.”

Which he wasn’t.We actually had to find something in the game
called the Shim-Sham-Jimmety-Jam-Clapper-Gapper.

True story.Clearly most computer problems are a picnic.Cause in this case, I couldn’t speak the
Freddi Fish language at all.

So that unsuspecting little clam shell, is actually, a SHIM-SHAM-JIMMETY-JAM-CLAPPER-GAPPER. Apparently...

More Freddi Fish - I spent absolute ages with Luke playing and helping him navigate this game. It was however a good investment, as I made him pay it forward when the time came. And thus he helped Amber and Cole when they graduated up to playing Freddi Fish. That is part of the reason one has eldest children - so they can help you with the littlies.